They Wouldn't Understand Their Love...

Jack gently parted the hairs around his partner’s anus. The smeared headlights of the cars passing them on the highway lit up the tender folds of Bill’s balloon knot. Jack felt sorry for those drivers. They could never know, never understand what he felt for Bill or what they had been through to get them to this place. Those passing motorists could not understand the unbearable sexual tension that builds when you taser a smartmouth in the crotch or rattle the teeth of an insolent teen or shoot some uppity professor for looking you in the eye. They could never understand the furtive glances that passed between them as they got their story straight or the soft brush of Bill’s knuckles against his hand as they faked incident reports together.

Jack grunted from his revelry as Bill twisted the saliva-lubed nightstick into his anus. He tensed against it, forcing Bill to twist harder, push harder. Jack began to lap eagerly at Bill’s man-cunt. As he briefly wormed his tongue inward he tasted ashes and some exotic spice he could not place. Jack slid his tongue downward, lightly flicking along the seam of Bill’s scrotum. Bill engulfed him with his mouth; Jack’s penis throbbed, seemingly begging to ejaculate in the back of Bill’s hot throat. Jack’s index finger slipped into Bill’s rectum. Probing as far as he could, he could feel a gnarled nugget of feces. Jack pressed against it urgently as Bill suckled him harder and harder.

They rocked in and out of each other, in time to the frantic beeping of the radar gun.

He could have been The Belle of the Ponderosa, but that was not the fat man's plan

Joe slid the train bathroom door lock to "Occupied." His shoulders slumped with relief. The poor people on the train always wanted to shake his hand or slap his back in gratitude for his support of public transit. He shuddered at the memory of their proletariat caress.

He washed his hands in the tiny metal sink. The water smelled like machine oil and pennies. He splashed water on his face and groped for a paper towel, but the dispenser wasn't there. He stared at the hand dryer bolted in its place. The start button was covered with a large "Go Green!" sticker. It whirred to life briefly but ignored his repeatedly jabs. With a sigh, he unfastened the snaps holding down his toupee and then wiped his face with it. He stuffed it into the small trash slot. There were three fresh ones still in factory plastic in his briefcase.

He rubbed his tumescence through his slacks. It was already hard, trained to the sights and smells of an Amtrak bathroom. Joe braced a foot on either side of the tiny room and slipped his penis free. He started with a light Western grip, occasionally stopping to pinch his glans so he could feel it refill with blood. With his left hand he cradled his scrotum, pulling the gray hairs at first, and them cupping tightly, the side of his thumb digging into the base of his penis.

Joe switched to an a full-fisted Cleveland grip, sliding the flesh his penis up and down, straining at the circumcision scar under his glans on the down stroke. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to fantasize. The usual image of Sarah at the debate would not come to him, only brief flashes of her glasses and his post-debate hug and the half-grind he managed.

Random images flickered: distorted memories of watching from the bedroom closet as his wife was anally violated by an intern, summer camp and smell of Helen Sartoski's crotch as he lapped at it through her shorts, a brief image of a shirtless Barack that he squeezed away.

Joe opened his eyes. The train swayed and bucked beneath him. It was slowing now, almost to its destination. He cast about for a visual aid as he pumped harder and harder. His vision strayed to the trash slot. A lock of hair from his discarded toupee hung from the slot like a peek of pubic hair during the first week of bikini season.

He ejaculated directly into the toilet.

Deep within the bowels of the Rayburn building...

Nancy kicked a lever under the cold metal table Dick was strapped to. He felt the blood rush into his head as his feet pivoted into the air. Nancy straddled his face, her genital piercings cracking a tooth as she lost her balance. She began tracing his open heart surgery scars with her tongue, paying attentions to every one.

She bit down hard on the disc of the pacemaker she could feel under the skin of his chest. Dick gasped and coughed, fighting for air under the clanking rings and studs in her vulva.

She hadn't washed in days, like she promised. She worked her way down him, sliding her breasts toward his mouth. She began biting harder, drawing blood from his clavicle. She sucked briefly and then spat the blood onto his wobbly neck.

Nancy was squatting over him now, staring intently into his rheumy eyes. Quick as a striking snake, she bit gobbet of flesh from his right cheek, shaking like a rat terrier to free it. She stood and took it out of her mouth. She ringed her insensate nipples with blood and threw the ragged chunk of Dick away.

"Get on with it, you commie bitch!" Dick growled. Nancy stretched the plastic wrap over his mouth and nose, stood and began pissing on his face. She watched as he choked, writhing against the restraints. The sensation of drowning was perfect, encompassing. His penis got a little larger with every electronically-assisted heartbeat.

Somewhere Off The Coast Of Alaska...

Barry slid the long zipper of Sarah's jeans down, tooth by delicious tooth. Each of the teeth clicking apart sent a shiver of pleasure down the length of her gunt. "Oh, yeah! You bethca!" she exclaimed as he reached through the open zipper and tried to push aside her enormous Wal*Mart panties.

As he leaned in close, the tip of the cigarette hanging from his mouth was inches from her own mouth. Sarah breathed in the acrid smoke. "Cool," he said, the cigarette bobbed as he spoke and ash fell into her cleavage. Barry stubbed out the cigarette on the side of a salmon Sarah had caught for him and let the gentle rocking of the boat guide his fingers against her swollen clitoris.

Sarah's fingernails scrabbled for purchase against Barry's own jeans. "Button-fly, baby," he drawled, "Hold on."

Sarah began to softly whine has he pulled his hand out of her crotch to undress. He wiped his hand on her face and gave her a salty finger to nurse. Sarah stumbled backwards and landed on a pile of fishing nets.

Barry dropped his jeans to his ankles. His POTUS underwear could barely constrain his turgidity. "Hey, girl. Where's the shitter in this place?"

"It's a boat, Barry."

"Yeah it is."

The Surgeon General Will See You Now

I wonder about her position on masturbation.

Standing? Leaning against the stall? Prone? Back? Stomach? Is she a vibrator or pillow-humping kind of gal? Does she do the couch-arm slide? How many attachments does her shower head have? Does she like the realistic, veiny dildos or the smooth kind? Balls or no? Silicone or glass? Does she stimulate the G-spot? Ass play? Is she a squirter?

I'd go on, but there's no call to be gross about it.

El Amor Prohibido

Abuela locked the door behind her with a click that echoed through the attic and back into the cramped room. Sonia and Miguel stayed where they were. They longed to cuddle, to sooth each other after Abuela's accusations, but they were afraid she would double back to catch them.

"Hermana, ¿está usted bien?" Miguel's eyes moved over the huddled form of his sister. Abuela had caught them kissing again and slapped Sonia cruelly.

"Voy a estar bien, hermano." Sonia held out her arms. As she shifted into the light Manuel could see the mark that would become an enormous bruise by morning. "Ven, Manuel. Abrázame, estoy frío." Manuel crossed to bed as quietly as he could. The ancient bedsprings protested under his weight.

"Usted no comer sus pasteles de esta mañana. Usted debe mantener su fuerza hasta," Manuel murmured. "Mi estómago me duele cuando comen," she whispered as she drew him close.

Manuel could feel her breasts against him through the thin material of her shirt. Abeula had taken all her bras when they moved here. She said Sonia was too young.

To Manuel, Sonia did not feel too young.

a steel fist of regulation covered by a velvet glove of emission trading

Henry nervously twirled his mustache as he watched the steel fist being unwrapped from it's velvet hood. The fist was plunged into a bucket of warm water to gently heat it. Nancy ran a coathanger down her cast to scratch her ruined leg. The bruises ran up into her bloomers. She farted and then let out a giggle tinged with hysteria.

The masked man raised the steel fist from the water by the sturdy three foot rod it was welded to. Henry chuffed as the fist was wiped dry and held up to gleam in the feeble sunlight trickling in though the boarded up window of his Rayburn office.

The phone rang in the hallway and an intern in ass-less chaps duck-walked to answer it. The bit in his mouth slurred the words, "Congethmah Wakmah's offith." A thin of line of spittle fell on the floor. The intern dropped the phone to wipe it up and then began to massage it into his scrotum.

Henry nodded to the masked figure. "Do it," he said, "Do it as many times as it takes me to learn." The steel fist smashed upwards into his crotch hard enough to lift him off his feet.

Nancy caught the fist on the laconic backswing and left a smeared kiss on the knuckle of the thumb.

Count Warty Interrupt

"Have mercy, sirrah," Dagny begged, looking up at the shadowed face of the debauched Count Warty, "me bumhole is frightful sore and spattered." Tears tracked trails in the dirt of her urchin face.

Count Warty leaned over and spat into her open mouth. "You will do as a I say, bumwhore," he growled. His monocle fell from his one unruined eye and dangled, glittering in the flickering light from the coal gas streetlamps.

Dagny pulled up the hem of her tattered dress, exposing a dark thatch of damp pubic hair the size of a velocipede's seat. Count Warty reared back from the smell. He gestured with his cane for her to turn around, his tumescence already outlined against the fine cut of his trousers.

For jester

Barney's cleft palate folds upwards as he wheezes and gulps Rahm's hot-sagging balls into his sinuses. Nancy plays the frantic chicken while Dianne tries to tie her enormous labia around a touch lamp. Flickering on and off and dim and bright as it shakes back and forth, the lamp shows in a slow strobe Rahm struggling to break free of Barney's gagging embrace. Rahm shits a frightened little turd on Barney's neck. Barney, startled and finally erect, kicks out at a squawking Nancy who is masturbating furiously with a loofah sponge attached to a cordless drill. Her leg shatters like a cheap epiphany.

"an act so heinous that it defies one’s ability to describe it"

Homosexual behavior is a ground for divorce, an act of sexual misconduct punishable as a crime in Alabama, a crime against nature, an inherent evil, and an act so heinous that it defies one’s ability to describe it. That is enough under the law to allow a court to consider such activity harmful to a child. To declare that homosexuality is harmful is not to make new law but to reaffirm the old...

-Roy Moore



The doorknob rattled on his office door. A voice from the hall said, "Roy, you in there? I got it. Open up."

Roy locked his desk and then stood. He smoothed down his judicial robes and went to the office door. A hulking figure loomed on the other side of the frosted glass. "Is it you?" he asked. "Of course it's me," the figure said, "who the fuck you think it was?"

Roy open the door and snatched the paper sack out of Billy's hand as soon as he was through. The T-shape of the gavel dildo tumbled out of the torn sack and bounced under his desk. As Roy reaches for it his robe rides up. He is naked underneath. Billy watches Roy's anus pucker, like an eye shutting out the sight of Billy's growing erection.

When Roy stands--the lint-covered dildo in hand--Billy is already dropping his over-alls to the floor. Billy juggles his testicles while pinching the head of his penis and Roy moans. He drops his own robes to the floor and starts to lick the dildo clean.

"I gotta take shit, Roy, but don't you go weak sister on me. You give it to me but good." Billy crossed and bent over the desk. He spread his flabby white ass open for Roy and farted almost silently.

Roy inserted the gavel-dildo in his own anus and waddled toward Billy. Roy felt ready to come as soon as the tip of his glans first brushed the pimples dotting Billy's perineum. The perfume of Billy's colon almost drove Roy mad.

"Why don't we try drinking rats' milk and dogs' milk?"

You don't have to be high to fuck a one-legged crazy chick, just adventurous. What do you think? Leg on or off? Switch it up all the time? Or did she have a special fucking leg she put on for just those occasions? Maybe a silicone leg with a few back-up vaginas up and down its length. Or maybe a reinforced model to hang her up from... leg, sling, and pleasure swing all in one. You think he wished it was the other leg that was gone, or maybe both so she could use him as a pogo stick?

Or maybe he didn't need the fake leg at all. Maybe she had a fuckhole drilled out in the stump for him. Paul could go down on it for hours while she farted up a storm as only a celebrity vegan can. Maybe the marriage wasn't a mistake at all, maybe he'd go through the whole divorce again just to stick his cock in that sweet, sweet legcunt and fuck the bone marrow out of her one more time.

In His Mom's Basement There Lived A Young Troll Named Morris Magill

Morris fended off her attempts to bite him. A single well-placed slap knocked her dentures loose and sent them flying. They clattered out of sight in the darkness of the basement. She still numbly clawed at him, but could get no purchase on the heavy rain slicker. She had been dead two days.

Morris struggled with her off-balance, but managed to topple her onto the work bench. He fired the nailgun repeatedly into her hands and forearms. The fingers twitched like a galvanized frog. She could only weakly move her legs, kicking up from where they hung off the end of the bench. He tied them with efficient knots to the supports of the bench itself.

She moaned. It almost sounded like his name. Her bloody night gown hung in tatters and he ripped the rest of it away. He was nude after he let the slicker fall to the floor. Morris struggled for purchase against the smooth concrete of the basement floor and the height of the work bench, but he finally entered her. After a few frantic thrusts, he came, spurting thick ropey semen into her gray pubic hair as he fell backwards.

From the floor he stared at her vulva, already torn from his exertions. Morris felt himself begin to stiffen once more. He smiled. His mother would never turn him down again.

The Lost Tapes of Sappho

"Oh, Nancy," Dianne exclaimed as she writhed on the blood-warm waterbed. It had been stripped of its sheets and the two of them where coated in a thin layer of GMO-free soybean oil. Nancy lifted the pudding-filled sweatsock of Dianne's breast from her armpit and lightly bit the coarse hairs surrounding the ragged aureole.

Dianne scrambled to find Nancy's dessicated labia, lapping oil from the bed to provide enough elasticity so that her clitoris wouldn't break off and crumble in her hand. Nancy slipped a lubed finger in Dianne's anus and began to massage her perineum in lazy circles with her thumb. "Oh, Nancy," Dianne exclaimed again, "Harder, like the doula when Katherine was born!"

In their ecstasy neither could see the red LED of the camera or hear its soft whir in the dim chamber.

Grateful Grannies, Vol. 6

...on the third hard pull of the reel, the gas-powered multi-dildo sprang to life. Its noxious exhaust quickly filled the cramped room. Dianne watched with rapt attention as all seven jiggly jelly junk jammers gyrated spastically as the masked man gunned the engine. Volume three of the California penal code hung from a crude steel post pierced through his frenulum.

As he advanced on her, she exclaimed, "I been wet for seven days!" He mumbled something behind his mask, but it was drowned out as the machine began its work.

Behind The Warty Door

With the last grating pass of the razor, Lindsay looked up at Warty expectantly. Warty tossed the razor away and turned under the harsh glare of the klieg lights. The corn oil dripped from his elbows and penis onto the layer of shower curtains the servants had put down.

"Ah gawd," came Lindsay's effete Southern drawl, "You look good enough to eat for Sunday dinnah." Warty playful flicked oil at him as Lindsay squatted in the gloom outside the powerful lights. The oil was heating up under the them and the room filled with the scent of tacos and immigration.

Lindsay finished rubberbanding his penis and testicles into a genital bouquet and slowly inserted one then two then three tiny liquor bottles into his anus. They clacked together when he stood. He carefully shimmied toward Warty while flashing his shittiest of shit-eating grins.

Lindsay said, looking deep into Warty's waiting eyes, "Ah wish you were a nigrah."

Warty fainted dead away.

The Sex-Robots Who Have Sex Robotically

"I've seen things you white males wouldn't believe," Sonia muttered as she slid the enormous strap-on from beneath the judicial robes.

She ran after Souter, gibbering and hooting in Bronxian Spaglish. She could hear him breathing, hiding behind a rotted wall. She could even hear the skin of his withered testicles as they drew up in fear. She rammed her head through the wall and caught David's hand, stripping the gavel from it easily. "Empathy is for turtles," she said as she gnawed his hand open. "This is for Ruth!" she growled, his pinky bone snapping like a whip. David cried out. "And this is for Sandra!" as she broke his ringfinger while he moaned. Sonia placed the gavel back into his hand. David tried to adjourn, but she was too fast.

David ran from her through the crumbling hotel. He couldn't help but look back at her strap-on as it flailed in time with her inexorable stride. The roof, he thought. The roof.

Kitty Cat Pool Party, featuring Paul Krugman

"This what we have to do the greedy upper class, who have gotten rich suckling at the neck of the virtuous proletariat!" Paul dropped the cat and reached into his shirt, pulling out the Nobel Prize that hung around his neck. He fumbled at the dental floss that was threaded through the rough hole he had drilled.

"I can do this because I won the NOBEL PRIZE!" He brandished the over-sized coin at the pundits and cameramen in the studio as he waddled away from the desk with his pants around his ankles. Sweat dripped from his beard as he advanced on the frightened cat.